the little things before the story starts; between the plot points of your life. in movies the camera only pans over laughter and shock. in the real life: your best friend passes the salt. you wait in line with your brother. the doodle on your notebook is just normal - goes forgotten, not undiscovered.
you find it romantic, still. the light in your apartment scraping up the wall in a slow yellow ripple. her fingerprints on the mirror. the spider in the bathtub you google the name of. a quesadilla you manage to perfectly cut.
the unwitnessed and private beauty of the mundane. she stands over the stove and makes you a perfect salsa with peppers from her garden; only the two of you will get to share it. you have finally managed to organize one of your closets. the art supply you need is not only in stock - it's buy-one get-one.
you are delighted to find the cord you need in the first place you start looking - you thank your past self for a moment; and then that moment opens up. when you were a kid, you almost didn't get here. you were terrified of the possibility of an endless and terrible numb; a life made grey and vapid, a spirit made dull. how close you came to that precipice. how often it still calls to you; violent and unresting.
and yet here you are, and old now; older than you ever anticipated - just a normal adult. you are managing to stay somewhat on top of the dishes. today it smells like fall. your dog made friends with another dog. you had a nice conversation with a stranger; you got your grocery shopping done. the tiny liminal moments of your life; apple cider donuts and jazz music and humming along. and here you are, thanking your past self.
because you stayed. and how funny - you never pictured being safe like this, calm and centered. your most normal moments now feel like what used to be your best ones. somewhere in there, the warmth crept in. somewhere in there, when you weren't watching: you got the life you would have only ever dreamed of.
